


Responsible

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, First Kiss, M/M, fretting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2496248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you do not uncuff me <i>right fucking now</i>, if you sod off to play ‘catch the murderer’ all by yourself, obviously I can’t fucking stop you. But I swear to God, Sherlock, if you do that, if you run off into danger alone, I will <i>never</i> forgive you.” He’s clenching both his hands into fists and his chest is heaving, Sherlock can see. His jaw is set and his nostrils flare with each furious breath.</p><p>John is not lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts).



> Kelley made this lovely little painful thing: http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/100602538429/imagine-sherlock-and-john-running-headlong-into so... there. I imagined it.

John comes back, eventually. He resumes assisting Sherlock with The Work, and things are good. Relatively. In five years, John’s life has been directly - seriously - threatened, more than half a dozen times now. His psychological health has been on something of a rollercoaster in that time as well, and Sherlock knows he is responsible. It’s been impossible to deny John from joining him though, when he looks pleadingly up at Sherlock, his eyes huge and bright.

They’re chasing down a serial killer now, though, who has been targeting shorter men in their forties and fifties. Something to do with their father; Sherlock had dismissed the information once he was sure John could remind him of it if necessary.

“Do you have your handcuffs?” he asks John as they wait for traffic to clear, bouncing on their toes before running across the road.

“My handcuffs? You mean _your_ handcuffs, that you stole from Greg?” John produces them. “Course I do.” He’s enjoying this, Sherlock knows. That will make him angrier about what Sherlock is about to do, and Sherlock truly does hate making John angry, but he’s nearing forty, himself. Time to grow up; time to think ahead and plan for the future. He’s not a pouting child any more, nor is he a junkie student.

Slapping the cuff around John’s wrist is shamefully easy, and he is shackled to a bike rack in no time.

“What the - Sherlock, what? Unlock this!”

Sherlock shakes his head, taking half a step back.

“No, sorry, John.”

“You _cannot_ just run off there alone! Don’t do this to me again! For _fuck’s_ sake, Sherlock, this isn’t funny; let me out!”

He shakes his head again.

“Fucking hell, you _pissing_ wanker. You’re going to get yourself k- fuck! Uncuff me!” John yanks uselessly at it while Sherlock takes a few, painful steps away.

“Stop _right_ fucking there. Listen to me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. If you do not uncuff me _right fucking now_ , if you sod off to play ‘catch the murderer’ all by yourself, obviously I can’t fucking stop you. But I swear to _God_ , Sherlock, if you do that, if you run off into danger alone, I will _never_ forgive you.” He’s clenching both his hands into fists and his chest is heaving, Sherlock can see. His jaw is set and his nostrils flare with each furious breath.

John is not lying.

Sherlock means to walk away, but he takes two paces and suddenly he is an arm’s length away.

“I’m sorry, John,” he says, and it’s not enough; he’s not sure how to arrange his face so John believes him. He’s lied far too often to John, in far too many situations of his own making. “I’m sorry. But if I have to choose between your friendship and your life, I want to be mature enough to choose the right one. What’s best for you.”

John glares up at him, standing perfectly still and radiating rage. Sherlock hasn’t got much time; he needs to catch this killer. He reaches out to touch John’s face. It was something he’d always assumed they would get around to. Well. Too late now. His other hand reaches out too, and then he is cradling John’s jaw. The noise John makes is part growl, part whine.

“This would be a dangerous one for you. Trust me, I could much easier live in a world where you hate me than a world without you.” He clenches his jaw before he says anything else, taking one more step and pressing his lips to John’s forehead. Silver and gold hairs tickle his nose.

Then he turns and runs. It should be like tearing off a bandage, but it feels more like being shot.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing he says when Lestrade arrives is directions to where he’s left John. Lestrade waves him away.

“Yeah, I know, he rang me. Stop nicking my bloody cuffs, will you?”

“Where is he?”

“I dunno, he went home, I guess? I’m not actually your babysitter.”

Sherlock huffs as he stands from where he knelt on the killer, and there’s a brief struggle as they try to evade the grasp of the assisting police officers. He strides out to the curb and hails a taxi.

“Oi! Where are you going? You sod, you’re meant to stay and answer questions,” Lestrade yells after him.

“221 Baker St,” Sherlock tells the cabbie, loud and clear enough for Lestrade to hear.

 

It makes sense for John to have gone straight home. He will want to pack his things and leave immediately. The idea brings a shocking pain to his chest, despite having been warned half an hour ago of the repercussions of his actions. His choices, then, are to either run up the stairs to apologise and wish John well (not to beg him to stay, no, that would only irritate him and there’s no reason Sherlock would want their last conversation to go that way) or to let John leave in peace by hiding out in Mrs Hudson’s flat until he is gone. Reasoning that he could say hello to Mrs Hudson at least briefly before he gathers his courage together to farewell him for the third (final) time, he knocks sharply on her door and lets himself in. She’s sitting at her kitchen table, having a cup of tea - with John. Sherlock stumbles over his own feet and chokes out words.

“Sorry, I’ll - upstairs. You can - sorry. I won’t get in your way.”

Turning, he knocks his shoulder into the doorframe as he beats a hasty retreat. He wants to curl up on the couch, but flops onto his bed instead, the better to let John clear his belongings away in peace.

Time passes.

“Sherlock?”

It’s John’s voice, right outside his bedroom door, sounding uncharacteristically timid. “Sherlock, I want to talk to you.”

“You don’t need to do that, John. I won’t try and beg forgiveness again. You’re free to go.”

There is a noise, something thudding against the door. Sherlock fears it may be John’s forehead.

“I’m coming in.”

And then he does, and Sherlock is quick to gather his face into something calm and composed.

“I don’t want to leave,” John starts, and Sherlock’s brain is overturned once more.

“I - okay. Well. I’ll be gone before the end of the month.”

“No, stop.” There was a _smile_ in John’s voice and - he checked quickly - on his face. “You’re an idiot, you know. You could’ve just bloody told me you were worried.”

“Of _course_ I said I was worried,” he snaps.

“No, you cuffed me to a bar and then told me it was _dangerous_. In the future, I need you to stop assuming you know what’s best for me. And tell me if you’re worried - about anything.”

Sherlock can’t keep up.

“I worry about you all the time!” he cries. “That’s why I stopped you from coming today, that’s why I take the boring cases that pay well. That’s why I never said a _single thing_ against you getting married. _That’s why I pretended to be dead for two years!_ ”

John stares at him and Sherlock, horrified at his outburst, stares back.

“It’s all moot anyway; there is no future here.”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” smiles John. Sherlock’s not sure why he keeps smiling. It’s not his angry smile, and it’s making him nervous. “We need to talk more, and I need you to _not_ do that again, but - now I know your reasons for doing what you did, my ultimatum seems a bit much.”

“I’m not moving out?”

A snort issues from John, and he sits gingerly on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

“I don’t want you to, no.” Taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose, he asks Sherlock, “Do you know why I was so angry about you leaving me behind today?”

“You hate being left behind for anything.”

John shakes his head.

“No, see, I knew you wouldn’t get this, even though you _really should_.” He gathers himself again. “It’s because I worry about you.”

“ _Why_?” The question is out almost before he has thought it.

“Heh. Because if I let you out of my sight someone will - will blow up the living room, or drug you with hallucinogenic gas, or make you think getting _high_ is your safest option, or talk - talk you into killing yourself in front of me. Or shoot you in the chest.”

“No,” Sherlock grits out, painfully. “Why do _you_ worry about _me_?”

“Well, I care about you, don’t I? Why do you worry about me?”

It’s hard to put into words. Eventually, he says “You’re my best friend,” and it doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Is that all, though?”

 _No_.

“It’s enough.”

“But it’s not all.”

John is coaxing admissions from him like he would with a child, but he does not feel patronised as he does when Mycroft tries to do the same.

“ _No_ , that’s not all.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

They sit in silence a while, until John clearly decides he has tortured Sherlock long enough for now, patting his leg as he stands to leave.

“I’ll get some dinner on soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

 “So,” John starts as he puts their dishes in the sink. “You ready to talk about the kiss?”

He knows he cannot possibly have heard correctly.

“What?”

When he looks up, John’s face is turning pink but is still shaped towards determination.

“You kissed me, today. Don’t tell me you’ve deleted it already, Christ.”

“I’ve never deleted anything about you.” All other expression is wiped away from John’s face to allow room for something akin to shock.

“So, um, why the, uh,” he gestures at his forehead.

“I thought it would be my last chance, so I took the opportunity. That’s… all.”

John nods slowly.

“But it _wasn’t_ your last chance.” He pulls his chair around the table, closer to Sherlock. “You’ve got loads of other chances.”

Sherlock looks at him, uncomprehending.

“Like right now.”

He manages a polite “oh?” and John rolls his eyes.

“I want you to kiss me again,” he explains.

Sherlock obediently leans in slightly.

“ _Not_ on the forehead,” John clarifies. This startles a chuckle out of him, and while he is still smiling, John surges towards him to press their lips together.


End file.
